I am a climate change refugee

And you might be one too

I am a climate change refugee.

Well, technically, I’m a climate change migrant, since I didn’t have to “leave my country and face persecution” which is how the U.N. defines ‘refugee.’

But I feel like a refugee, and I’m finally ready to go public with my story in a summer of extreme heat, hurricanes, and other crazy weather phenomena—because you might become one, too.

The phrase “climate change refugee” sounds dramatic, doesn’t it? Here’s a definition, from National Geographic: “Climate refugees are people who must leave their homes and communities because of the effects of climate change and global warming. Climate refugees belong to a larger group of immigrants known as environmental refugees.”

A statement from the United Nations website: “Refugees, internally displaced people (IDPs) and stateless people are on the frontlines of the climate emergency. Many are living in climate “hotspots”, where they typically lack the resources to adapt to an increasingly hostile environment.” 

Here’s an online resource that documents different kinds of human movement around environmental migration, if you want more definitions.

The long road trip Mike and I took in our trailer that I documented in Passages was no idle vacation, as it may have seemed in the posts.

What were we really doing?  

We were seeing the USA, yes, but mainly we were looking for our next place to live.

We couldn’t stay in our area of California.

During the five years we lived on the Russian River near Santa Rosa (2017-2022) we were evacuated from our home seven times for severe, terrifying, life-threatening fires and floods. I developed PTSD, and now get anxious at a mere whiff of wildfire smoke. Backing up my fear: no one would insure our house, and the last fire in our area burned all the way to Guerneville, a mere five miles away, and took out the stately redwoods of Armstrong Grove that had grown there hundreds of years.

The redwoods on the river are in danger. The thought of being there when they burned… well, I get choked up just thinking about it. Yes, we writers have vivid imaginations, but the possibility of our area burning is high, and I didn’t want to be there when that happened.

“Why didn’t you just return to Hawaii?” This is the question Oregonians ask us most. “We’d move to Hawaii if we had the chance.”

The backstory: we went to California temporarily, to help with Mike’s mom’s end of life care; but we’d been in our same house in Hawaii for twenty years. During that time, we dealt with drought, floods, cane and grass fires, hurricane alerts, toxic volcanic emissions, and the highest cost of living in the nation other than New York City and Southern California.

And yes. If we’d never left Maui, we’d probably still be there with both of us paddling hard just to keep our heads above water, as Hawaii people do.

But we did leave, and our house was occupied by vulnerable elderly people we didn’t want to displace. We needed somewhere less expensive to live if my husband was to retire on a modest fixed income, and I needed somewhere I could sleep soundly at night without fear.

We took to the road and went looking for our next home, and Passages was born. (Learn more about our Big Road Trip adventures here, here, and here.)

We had some criteria for where we’d settle next:

1)    NO NATURAL DISASTERS! (that includes temperatures that get over 100, which is my top limit of personal toleration)

2)    Lower cost of living than Hawaii or California

3)    Beautiful nature that’s not in danger of burning or otherwise dying in front of our eyes.

4)    No heavy snow seasons. I’m a Hawaii girl after all. Sprinkles and freezes ok; six feet of shoveling, NO.

As we traveled, in every village and hamlet we passed through in six or seven states (we are not city folk) we picked up real estate magazines and looked at likely fixer-uppers.

We had means, yes, but modest ones. Low overhead was critical to our plan. We were on a quest to take charge of the remaining portion of our tiny existences and spend those years somewhere SAFE.

Have you heard of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs? Well, the need to be safe is right near the bottom, just above the primary needs for food and water.

Safety is level 2 importance!

Since we moved in 2022 to a nondescript small town in coastal Oregon that ticks ALL the boxes of our safety and needs criteria, I sleep soundly with a new level of peace and security.

The bed in our house is on high enough ground to be out of range of flood or tsunami; it’s not a fault zone, there are no volcanoes or hurricanes or tornadoes. Best of all, I look out my window into a wetland marsh and enjoy a view of trees that will likely never perish in a forest fire.

Was it easy to move to another state and start over at our ages of almost sixty and seventy?

Hell no.

Moving is never easy, and the older you get the harder moving house is physically, mentally, emotionally—and financially.

2022 was a blur as we made our big move.

I was “homeless” for close to six months, couch surfing with relatives and friends and trying to keep writing my books because finances depended on them. Mike worked nonstop seven days a week to remodel the fixer-upper we’d bought (sight unseen; the market was nuts) and make it livable.

For six months, we paid mortgages on two places while the Russian River house almost sold, fell through, had to be listed again, and finally—whew! Was off our hands.

The move totally wiped out our savings. Our belongings were hijacked by a cheap, disreputable moving company that kidnapped our stuff until we paid double what we’d originally negotiated. The house we’d bought without ever seeing it was in a neighborhood unlike any we’d ever lived in—a planned community of mostly retired people. Everyone’s yard was immaculate. Ours was not. (We’re messy creative types and our houses always looked like it.)

But we’d made it to coastal Oregon, where we’d be safe from natural disasters and could afford to live modestly. We would make it work because we had to.

For the first year I wasn’t sure if we’d done the right thing or landed in the right place. We adapted to the steep stairs, weird layout, and a driveway too small for Mike’s boat and the trailer, which forced us to park cars in the cul-de-sac (pissing our neighbors even more than our lack of yard care.)

We named our circa 1983 fixer Wanderer’s Rest: because to us that’s what coastal Oregon was…A beautiful greensward near a vibrant ocean with amazing sand dunes. Here, we could lay our stressed out, overworked bodies down and sleep in peace and safety.

Mike carved the house name into a caribou antler; the back yard is the best thing about our house.

I identified with settlers who risked life and limb to reach Oregon in covered wagons; this state was a promised land to us, too.

Now, as and we go into Year Two at Wanderer’s Rest, I am sure we did the right thing.

I love the abundant wildlife, most of which roams through our wild, undomesticated back yard (the neighbors can’t see that we don’t mow! Haha!) and the blackberries and huckleberries I’m picking around our house. Mike goes fishing often, and brings home salmon, crab, and clams to supplement our food budget.

It’s cold and rainy in the winter, yeah…but no snow! and in summer it’s glorious.

We’ve made friends with our neighbors and help each other with pet sitting and health crises; they’ve *mostly* forgiven our slovenly yard care and ugly parking situation. We love Oregon, it’s that simple—and we’re grateful to be here.

To show that, we’ve plugged into volunteering as a way to thank our community for being generously welcoming a couple of peripatetic artist/social workers. (Along with paying steep personal income and property taxes; some things ARE expensive here!) Mike volunteers weekly at a nearby salmon hatchery, doing everything from feeding baby fry to washing nets and fixing buildings. The salmon populations have been steadily dwindling (climate change again?) and he wants to help.

Meanwhile, I joined the local Rotary Club and also become a Court Appointed Special Advocate (CASA, or Guardian Ad Litem in other states) for kids placed in foster care. My school counselor background makes me well qualified to keep an eye on children in ‘the system,’ and advocate for them. The depressed economy in our area of Oregon has contributed to a lot of alcoholism and drug abuse that trickles down to affect kids, and I care about that.

Yeah, Oregon has its problems, as does anywhere—but we have jumped into life in ‘the Beaver State’ with both feet when we’re not camping or traveling. We’ve made lots of new friends as a result.

Your area may be fine climate-wise, or you’re able to compensate for high temperatures and weather extremes with air conditioning or a storm cellar. That’s great. I hope you continue to be okay and adapt to the changes we all face.

I also realize that the kind of researched, planned move that we made isn’t possible for many for a multitude of reasons.

But if you’re able to consider a move to somewhere safer, listen to the little voice that’s whispering that a change could be good. Trends for the environmental future are not looking positive.

If this post resonated with you, hit the little ❤️ and pass it on.

Thank you in advance! I welcome your thoughts and comments on this “hot topic” (see what I did there?) What do you think of climate change, and how is it affecting the world?